


Here it comes, there it goes again

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's memories of Bobby's panic room are <i>not</i> good, given the resouling and all the detoxes. So when they have to hole up down there to hide from some spirits, shit gets kinda crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here it comes, there it goes again

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic ever. Like, _ever_. Like, since I was forced to write back in elementary school (I am much more comfortable with scientific reports...) Anyways, that being said, I would really, really, really appreciate any and _all_ feedback! Also, thanks a ton to [](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/profile)[**de_nugis**](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/) for the amazing prompt (part of the Sam Week comment fic meme at [](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohsam**](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/) ), and also to [](http://glovered.livejournal.com/profile)[**glovered**](http://glovered.livejournal.com/) for the encouraging words that motivated me to attempt to write in the first place. Oh, and the title was taken from Atmosphere's song Panic Attack... How original, right? :)

“Sam! Would you hurry the fuck up?” Dean ordered, more than asked. But he had every right. Sam was stalling – and this was not a time when any sort of stalling was acceptable.

As soon as Sam crossed the iron threshold into the panic room constructed in Bobby’s basement, Dean slammed and bolted the solid door shut. “Seriously, Sam? We have a goddamn _army_ of revenants on our asses, but you needed to grab your tattered copy of–” Dean broke off as he tilted the book in Sam’s hand so he could see the cover. “ _Anna_ fucking _Karenina?_ Jesus, dude. How many times have you read that book anyways? Christ, sometimes I just don’t get you.”

And Dean was right. Yes, Sam had read the book from cover to cover at least three times already. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Sam needed something to wrap his hands around, to wrap his head around.

Dean immediately got to work, huge surprise. He and Bobby were resalting the door, resalting the thick iron walls, resalting _everything_. Sam just slumped down along one of the cabinets, pulled his knees up tight to his chest, and cracked open his Tolstoy.

“Shit,” Dean exclaimed. “I can hear ‘em. Upstairs. Bobby? Sam? You guys hear that?”

“Mmph,” Bobby responded. Sam didn’t. But Dean didn’t seem to notice, just kept on salting absolutely everything in sight.

Sam hadn’t even made it through the first paragraph. Every time he got just a few words in he lost all focus. It wasn’t that he wasn’t thinking clearly, it wasn’t. It was just, his chest. His chest felt so tight. He was certain it was getting tighter by the minute, no, make that the second. And even if he wasn’t focusing on the weight of what felt like three boxes full of salt rounds on his heart, the fact that there was no fucking fresh air in the room was enough to stop him from making any sense of the jumble of letters in front of his eyes.

But he kept on trying. Trying to focus on at least getting to the next page, trying to focus on the sounds of Dean and Bobby shuffling around.

Now Dean was almost up to the ceiling. He’d decided that he didn’t trust the vent at the top of the room. “Come on, Bobby. Hold the damn ladder _steady_ ,” Dean barked. “Christ, I fall from here, ya’ll may as well say your goodbyes right now.”

Oh, that was great. That was helping Sam. Now, in addition to the weight on his chest and his shortness of breath, his mind was frantically running through the scenario of a dead Dean. He’d lived that scenario more than once, a fuck ton more than once, so immediately his whole body reverted to those muscle memories. The feeling of life without Dean, life without – just life without. Sam thought he’d never have to feel it again, and god, this whole situation was becoming way too much to handle.

He quit pretending to read, took his nose out of the book and leaned his head back against the cabinet, which he was pretending did _not_ have a poster of Farrah Fawcett taped inside, and tried his damndest to take some deep breaths, to get some actual air into his lungs. Told himself, ‘Get a fucking grip. What is wrong with you? You’re stronger than this, _better_ than this.’ But nothing seemed to work – not the deep breathing exercises, not the self pep talk, not even closing his eyes and reminding himself that Dean is right here. Dean’s not going anywhere. _Ever_.

Salty drops of water started to drip out of his tear ducts, no matter how tight he squeezed his eyes shut, slowly at first, but soon he felt them rolling down his cheeks and could taste the salt when he licked his dry lips. His chest, his damn chest. So tight. He hadn’t thought that it could possibly have gotten any tighter, but his body continued to surprise him. And Dean was still fucking around up at the top of that towering ladder.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby griped. “They’ve found their way down here. Scratching at the damn door. Why’d you idjits get us in this mess?”

“That’s real nice, Bobby,” Dean replied flippantly. “Blame the only two hunters brave enough to attempt to solve the stupid fucking case. How the hell could we have known that tribe buried a single tooth from each of its members underneath that altar? Think maybe _you_ could’ve figured that out _before_ you sent us down to the damn boneyard?”

“Alright, alright. Truce,” Bobby muttered regretfully.

Sam’s chest was full out heaving now. This goddamn panic room and all its awful memories – the dreadful nights of detox, the most pain he’s _ever_ experienced, so painful he was sure he wouldn’t survive it, and the last time, when Death stuck his hand straight into Sam’s chest cavity, reimplanting his broken soul, not to mention the fact that all of it is darkened further by the full separation from Dean during those moments. All these memories had now come to have their full effect on his body. God, he hoped this would be their full effect.

This had progressed from a mere panic attack to everything that he remembers detox feeling like. He was wrecked.

Seriously struggling for air, Sam finally worked up the courage to fill Dean in on the severity of the situation. “Dean,“ he squeaked out of his too-parched throat.

Dean, who’d finally climbed down from the ceiling, jerked his head to look at his brother, to garner why his voice was so–

But at just that moment the air in the room became charged and seemed to open wide.

Dean was already heading over to where Sam was slumped, panic clearly appearing on his face, but despite his consternation, his curiosity caused him to turn to see what had caused the commotion.

“Cas,” Dean said gruffly. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard your silent prayers, Dean,” Cas answered. “You and Sam took care of all the work, figuring out where the trouble was coming from, how those kids had messed with things and accidentally awakened an ancient tribe, still vengeful for their untimely demise. I simply visited the shrine of teeth and did what you taught me: I torched the bitch. But, really, I wish you had been more thorough, because in case you have forgotten, I am quite busy with–”

Dean cut him off. “Thanks. But would you just give us a fucking second here, Cas? I need to get Sammy out of here.” With that, Dean wedged his arm under Sam, lifting with his whole weight. Sam was nearly incapacitated, could barely hold himself upright, and stumbled closer to Dean, leaning on him.

“That’s right, Sammy. I’ve got ya.” He got his arm hooked tight around Sam and was able to bear most of the weight. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

\- - -

By the time Dean had Sam laid out on the bed up in Bobby’s guest room, _their_ guest room, Sam had started to calm a little. The feeling of Dean’s arm around him had definitely helped. And now Dean was perched over him, fingers rubbing gentle circles into his nape.

“Sam, oh, Sammy. I’m so sorry. So sorry,” Dean cooed, over and over again.

“Dean, just–” Sam started.

“Just, shhh,” Dean responded. “You just relax. You just keep breathing.” Dean’s other hand had migrated to Sam’s chest, was feeling Sam’s frantic heartbeat finally start to slow.

“I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Bringing you down there. Bolting the door. _Locking_ you in.”

“Dean, you couldn’t’ve known. Didn’t have a choice. The spirits...”

“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking matter. I _should_ have known. Should have done something, something else. _Anything_ else.”

“Just lay with me, Dean. Please?” Sam asked timidly. But Dean was more than willing to comply. He shifted downwards on the bed, laid flat, and pulled Sam tenderly toward him. This was their routine. This was them. This? Was helping.

Sam breathed deep, smell of gun oil, and salt, and _Dean_ filling his senses. He could breathe again. It was over – not only the attack of the pissed off revenants, but the far worse attack that had existed solely in his mind.

“Dean, I just can’t,” but Sam trailed off as Dean reached towards his face, fingers trailing down his jaw to grip loosely behind his neck. Dean shifted, bringing his mouth closer to Sam’s.

“I know, Sammy. I know. Never again. I promise.” And with that he closed the space between them. The kiss was charged, heady, filled with all of the feelings that they felt for one another, all of the love, maternal, fraternal, and all the rest.

Sam licked slowly across Dean’s bottom lip and pulled himself even closer, even tighter against Dean’s chest. Finally, he could breathe. His tongue was battling with his brother’s, and all he could taste was Dean, but he could breathe. And his heart was still racing, just no longer from anxiety. Now it was racing because he was exactly where he wanted to be, was about to get exactly what he needed.

Regardless, Sam eventually broke away and whispered, “That’s what you said last time.”

Dean’s eyes clouded with guilt, but Sam hadn’t meant for that, and now felt terribly guilty himself. He leaned forward and pressed his lips almost chastely to his brother’s. “I know, Dean. I know.”


End file.
